


Day 3: Forced to their Knees

by Hylla_Tavorian_Aldan



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Aftercare, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality, Asexuality Spectrum, BDSM, Bloodplay, Bondage, But that's really it XD, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Knifeplay, LMAO, Light BDSM, No Smut, Non-Sexual Bondage, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Non-Sexual Submission, OH WAIT I MENTION GRAY MANN, just two emotionally constipated bastards being cute together, no beta we die like men, still no canon characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 05:35:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26966806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hylla_Tavorian_Aldan/pseuds/Hylla_Tavorian_Aldan
Summary: Direct sequel to "Day 2: Collars".
Relationships: Original Female Character(s)/Original Male Character(s), Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	Day 3: Forced to their Knees

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PurpleCompromise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleCompromise/gifts).
  * Inspired by [This Is Where We Are Now](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3990601) by [PurpleCompromise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleCompromise/pseuds/PurpleCompromise). 



> Another fic with Abe and Bluberry! I just love them so much, y'all don't even know ;-;

In hindsight, the Coppinger and Abernathy manors probably should’ve had each other’s color schemes, Abraham mused. And following the “tragic deaths” of Yvonne and Elektra, he and Geo had effectively done as much while she and Victor had been in hiding from Gray Mann.

His family’s manor had been built in the style of the Gothic Revival, and while the exterior was mostly painted white and not particularly impressive to look at, the interior had been awash in warmth: the furniture was carved from various types of wood, there had been an almost ridiculous amount of gold tableware and utensils, and deep red velvet dominated the majority of the curtains, bedsheets, and upholstery.

The Abernathy manor, on the other hand, resembled a castle; whether it was fitting or a coincidence, given Geo’s heritage, he’d yet to decide. It was made of stone, and reinforced with more recent materials to help it stand the test of time. The interior had been frighteningly cold, he recalled—both in temperature and in atmosphere. Various shades of blue and grey, accented by hints of black and white, were the order of the day, and every time he and Elektra had come to visit, he remembered how distinctly uncomfortable Geo had been in her own home.

Whenever the two of them were left alone while their parents talked business, she was always able to navigate him to a more private area of the manor, which was to be expected from someone who’d lived there her entire life. However, she had always moved with a sort of…paranoia about her.

She walked in such a way that her footsteps were as deliberately quiet as she could make them, and she was always keeping track of the various doors and windows, making small gestures with her hands and muttering quietly under her breath as Abraham dutifully pretended not to hear her. She startled whenever she heard a knock on the door or heard footsteps approaching, and even as an adult she never did quite drop those small habits.

Now, things were different. Not only did Abraham finally have his desired home aesthetic, but he also had someone to share it with and make the manor feel more lived-in, even if it was just the two of them—which is exactly how he liked it.

As of this moment, Abraham was alone in the bedroom he shared with Patricia. He glanced around the room for a moment, taking in the wallpaper and assorted furniture pieces as he sat on the edge of the bed, tapping his fingers against his thigh. He had given her a room of her own and they _did_ sleep in the same room on occasion, but everywhere he looked, there were small personal effects and reminders that Patricia was actually _living_ with him, and neither of them was obligated to spend time with the other due to some preexisting arrangement made without his knowledge or consent.

It was nice.

And speak of the devil, the door swung open, and just as Abraham moved his gaze to the person who opened it, any remark he’d been about to make died on his tongue when he saw Patricia standing there.

When Abraham had requested she wear a suit during the scene, she’d been more than happy to oblige—especially after he’d presented her with a credit card, the address to various high-end boutiques and a private tailor he frequented for his own clothes, and told her to order whatever she wanted.

Clearly, she’d had no trouble in pulling out all the stops.

She was wearing a crisp white dress shirt with an arrow collar jutting sharply from beneath the dark blue linen blazer, which she had left unbuttoned for the occasion. The tapered pants were the same color and material as the blazer, fitting snugly around her thighs and flaring ever-so-slightly at the bottom and _oh._

To most people, Patricia was simply wearing a pair of high heels. To Abraham, however, she was wearing a pair of pointed black stiletto heels that were four inches high and pointed at the toes, and he’d never seen anything more beautiful and terrifying in his entire life. He suddenly felt horribly underdressed in just a button-down, slacks, and dress shoes.

When Abraham didn’t say anything for a good few moments, a wicked grin spread across Patricia’s face. “What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?” she asked teasingly.

Abraham opened his mouth to respond, but the words were once again dead on arrival when he saw her pull on a short length the metal leash attached to the collar from both ends.

“Are you really at a loss for words?” she said, walking slowly and deliberately as she approached him, where he was still sitting helplessly on the edge of the bed they shared. Her smile widened when she saw him swallow thickly, then give a tight nod in affirmation.

“I’m flattered, darling,” she hummed appreciatively, unclasping the collar as she made a show of unhooking the end of the collar from the silver metal prong, and then slowly tugging it through the metal buckle until she was holding one end in each hand.

Patricia leaned forward, looping the collar around Abraham’s neck and pausing just as she was about to secure the buckle. “Do you remember what we talked about?” she murmured, her eyes softening for just a moment.

“Every word,” he reassured her with a wry, but gentle smile.

She gave him a small nod, offering one final smile before she was all business once more, clasping the collar around his neck and giving the chain an experimental tug. “What color?” she asked, her words and expression reverting to how they were before.

“Green,” he said, his hands gently gripping his own thighs as he spoke.

“Good,” she replied appreciatively, before tugging sharply on the leash, forcing him to stumble to his feet. “Unless you use the stoplight system, the scene ends right when I say ‘I think you’ve had enough.’ Is that understood?”

“Of course,” he promised, nodding his head solemnly.

Patricia’s expression darkened. “‘Of course’, _what?_ ” she asked, her voice becoming cold as she gave another tug on the leash.

Abraham’s smile widened. “I’m afraid I can’t remember,” he sighed. “I’m afraid my memory has been getting on in—”

Before he could finish his sentence, he felt himself being yanked down by the leash, and the cool metal of a blade underneath his chin—gentle enough for him to know it was there, but not hard enough to draw blood.

_Yet._

And as he looked straight into Patricia’s eyes, he found they gave him _far_ more chills than the knife ever would.

“Do I need to help you jog your memory?” she said, her voice lowering to a frightening whisper as she pressed the tip of the knife harder against his throat. “I’d hate to leave any scars if you continue to misbehave.”

“Hmm.” Abraham pretended to look thoughtful. “Yes, I—”

His response was once again cut off when he Patricia suddenly slapped him across the face, having removed the knife a split second beforehand as his head whipped painfully to the side. His eyes were blown wide and his mouth was hanging open in a strange combination of shock and crazed _delight._

“Did that _jog your memory?_ ” she asked mockingly, twirling the knife between her fingers as she watched Abraham with shamelessly morbid curiosity.

He barked out a laugh, harsh and grating against her ears. “No, I’m afraid not!” he replied with an equal amount of mirth in his voice. “Try a bit harder, won’t you, my _dear?_ ”

Patricia’s lip curled in a sneer. “Is that any way to talk to your mistress?” she said, her grip tightening on the knife as she stopped twirling it between her fingers.

“I wouldn’t know; I’ve never had one before,” he drawled. “But rest assured my dear, I'm _very_ eager to learn.”

“You certainly have a funny way of showing it,” she scoffed, before making a downward motion with her dagger. “Now get on your knees like the dog that you are.”

“And if I don’t?” he asked with a raised brow.

Patricia’s eyes narrowed sharply, and she slowly let the leash slip through her fingers and fall to the floor, walking around him so she was standing behind him. Then, she placed a hand on his shoulder and all but shoved him to the floor, where he ended up on his hands and knees. Before he could even _attempt_ to get up, he felt Patricia plant her foot on his back, the pointed heel of her shoe digging into his spine.

“I said… _kneel,_ ” she repeated, pressing down once for good measure.

“Thankfully, it appears you’ve already done it for me,” he pointed out, sounding noticeably breathless as he spoke.

“And it appears _you_ talk too much,” she replied disdainfully. “I'll have to remedy that.”

She lifted her foot from Abraham's back, but it was immediately replaced by her hand on his collar, giving it a harsh tug so he was forcefully yanked upward and was forced to sit on his knees, with his hands resting on his thighs. Patricia hummed cheerfully to herself as she got down on one knee, adjusting her grip on the knife and pressing the blade to the back of his neck.

Her expression turned thoughtful for a moment, before applying pressure to the knife, her red-painted lips curling up in a cruel smile as the knife broke through the skin, and she heard him let out a hiss of pain from between his teeth. She then removed the blade so it was no longer pressing cutting into his neck, angling it and dragging it down the middle of his shirt, slowly cutting it down the middle as she lowered her body along with the knife, making sure the tip grazed his spine _just so._

Once Abraham’s shirt had been sliced clean in half, she set the knife aside for the time being and rose to her feet, circling around so she was standing in front of him again.

“Arms out, I'm taking off your shirt,” she instructed him, kneeling down in front of him as he smirked innocently and raised his eyebrow.

“I didn't realize you were so eager to get me out of my clothes, Patricia,” he commented, his smirk only widening when he saw the flat glare she was giving him.

“I'd shut up if I were you,” she warned him, her voice lowering as she picked up the leash and began toying with it, watching as his eyes flickered repeatedly between her and the motions her hands were making, watching her loop the chain through her fingers and let it slip through the spaces between them, “unless you'd prefer the knife again?”

“I hate to admit it, my dear, but you’re not making the supposedly ‘bad’ option sound very unappealing,” he said with a smile, nevertheless holding out his arms as told. “Perhaps you’re holding out on me?”

Patricia’s eyes narrowed sharply. “Is _that_ what you think?”

Without warning, she let the chain fall to the floor, grabbing the collar of Abraham’s shirt and all but ripping it off of him, pause when she saw faded gunshot wounds scattered across his upper body. What caught her attention, however, was the _massive_ jagged scar on the right side of his lower waist. The majority of the scarred flesh was on the anterior side of his body, where it circled around and ended just on his backside.

When Abraham noticed Patricia’s gaze roving over the scars on his body, he didn’t look particularly fazed, but when he opened his mouth to say her name, her eyes immediately snapped up to meet his, and she pressed her index finger gently, but firmly against his lips.

“I told you to keep quiet,” she murmured, removing her finger and leaning forward to kiss him, using her free hand to cup his cheek. She felt him stiffen for a moment, but was quick to tilt his head and deepen the kiss, letting out a quiet, satisfied hum against her mouth.

It felt far too soon by the time Patricia finally pulled away, and a small smile flickered across her face when she saw Abraham’s lips were slightly parted and stained red from her lipstick, and his dark eyes were blown wide and his breathing was shallow.

Not wasting any more time, she pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek, taking an extra moment to whisper “good boy” against his cheek as she used Abraham’s ruined shirt to tie his wrists behind his back. Once she was sure he couldn't get free, she began applying soft kisses to the wounds on his torso, making sure her lipstick left a mark on each of them until she reached the scar on his waist, where she left a lipstick mark right in the center.

She got to her feet and took a few steps back, her small smile widening as she inspected her handiwork. “You know, I almost wish I’d brought a camera with me,” she mused, putting her hands on her hips. “I could’ve taken a photo for posterity.”

“Don’t feel too bad,” he consoled her, the effect only slightly wrinkled by the smirk that overtook his own expression. “You’ll get plenty of opportunities later on.”

“Hm…I suppose I will,” she conceded, her smile dropping as she straightened the lapels of her jacket. “Anyway, I think you’ve had enough. Where did you say you put the washcloths?”

“In the bathroom, _my lady,_ ” he replied, letting out an unrepentant chuckle as Patricia glared at him a second time before walking behind him to untie his wrists, her gaze lingering on the trail of dried blood going down his spine.

“So _now_ you decide to listen?” she scoffed, albeit halfheartedly as she headed towards the bathroom door. “Honestly…”

“You know you like it!” he called after her as he massaged his wrists.

“Not really,” she drawled, before disappearing into the bathroom, returning a few seconds later with a wet washcloth held in each hand. Her hair was also down, having been freed from its tight bun while she was there.

She handed one of the washcloths to Abraham, who began wiping the lipstick from his torso while Patricia wiped the dried blood from his back. She then produced some Neosporin and a white gauze pad, applying it to the cut on his neck before unwrapping the bandage and applying it to the wound, gently pressing down on it to make sure it stuck.

“How are you feeling?” Patricia asked, holding out a hand to help Abraham to his feet, who winced from being on his knees for as long as he’d been.

“Quite wonderful, actually!” he replied brightly, walking next to her as they both entered the bathroom this time, taking the wet rag from Patricia to squeeze out the water over the sink as she tossed the bandage wrapper in the trash and put the Neosporin away. “We should do that again sometime! Don’t forget to wash your face, dear.”

“Of course not,” she snorted, waiting until he stepped aside so she could wash her face over the sink. It didn’t take long, and once she dried her face off with a clean towel, she turned back to Abraham, crossing her arms over her chest and asking, “Was I too hard on you?”

“Not at all,” he reassured her, offering a shockingly earnest smile as he left the washcloths to dry and ushered her out of the bathroom. “I promise you were absolutely wonderful.”

The two of them made their way towards the massive bed in the center of the room, where Patricia kicked off her heels and let the blazer slide from her shoulders before climbing into bed, where Abraham was already waiting for her after simply kicking off his own shoes.

“How do _you_ feel, my dear?” he asked, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair from her face.

“I enjoyed it a lot,” she replied, giving him a small smile as she leaned into his touch. “I wouldn’t mind doing this again sometime.”

“I’d love nothing more,” he said, cupping her cheek in his hand as he gently brushed his lips over hers. “I know you didn’t expect me to be interested in this sort of thing, but I’m thankful you’re willing to indulge me.”

Patricia smiled quietly and pressed her forehead against his, reaching down to lace her fingers with his.

“It was my pleasure.”

**Author's Note:**

> A thing I wrote for Whumptober. More one-shots to come, albeit incredibly sporadically because I have school and terrible pacing skills.


End file.
